I’ve always loved
The crane of green, of spiring atoms
Years in their making: the
Burdened, brittle backs of flowers in my garden.
These are the stems which are nothing but,
letting loose a leaf here that wonders then
Wilts; slung, there, sullen, at the side.
I’ve always admired
The ribald crags, a matter of mid-life
Crises. Yet, all about its warted middle
A uniform purpose nonetheless rises:
Dewy petals ringing white in halos,
Their fearless figures spread wide upon the air:
Indeed, all the supple self naked to the whim of Nature.
I’ve always enjoyed their grace.
Except, there is one bowing low, shut upon itself
And gray. I wonder how it came to be that way,
Still haloed in its ashen regalness.
Or, for that matter, how many more will
Slump before tomorrow, exchanging their halos
For a bit of rest.
Yes, I’ve always marveled at the uncanniness of flowers.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
I’ve always loved
The crane of green, of spiring atoms
Years in their making: the
Burdened, brittle backs of flowers in my garden.
These are the stems which are nothing but,
letting loose a leaf here that wonders then
Wilts; slung, there, sullen, at the side.
I’ve always admired
The ribald crags, a matter of mid-life
Crises. Yet, all about its warted middle
A uniform purpose nonetheless rises:
Dewy petals ringing white in halos,
Their fearless figures spread wide upon the air:
Indeed, all the supple self naked to the whim of Nature.
I’ve always enjoyed their grace.
Except, there is one bowing low, shut upon itself
And gray. I wonder how it came to be that way,
Still haloed in its ashen regalness.
Or, for that matter, how many more will
Slump before tomorrow, exchanging their halos
For a bit of rest.
Yes, I’ve always marveled at the uncanniness of flowers.
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